


and we could be enough

by orphan_account



Series: best of women [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:23:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5314901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She lets herself dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and we could be enough

Eliza meets up with Alexandra on the sly; her sisters feed their father white lies and excuses to keep him from worrying, while Alex's friends happily cover for her, though likely with no small amount of ribbing. (She calls them  _her boys_  with fondness reserved for very few and Eliza thinks that it should, perhaps, ignite jealousy within her; but in America, Alex has no home except in the presence of her fellow revolutionaries, her friends, her boys. No home except perhaps that and Eliza's embrace. Jealousy would be foolish and unnecessary, here.)

They meet up frequently, while they are still able, because they are on the verge of war and Alex's duties will soon steal her away from Eliza; Eliza, while proud, dreads it, though she would never admit so to Alex.

“My dearest Elizabeth,” Alex says when she catches sight of her. They have met in an inn tonight, rented a room, small and discreet, and Eliza has no complaints, but nonetheless yearns for a time where she can take Alex to her own bed.

“Alexandra,” she responds with a kiss to her cheek. “You look worn, my love.”

“The General has put me hard at work,” and Alex—even when clearly exhausted, her hair a unwashed mess and her eyes a little dimmer at the edges— never sounds worn, only proud to be of use. Alex may look like Hell, but Eliza knows Alex is at her worst when she is helpless, with no purpose and nothing for her ever-fidgeting hands to do. So Eliza reigns in her worry; besides, there is war ahead of them. She does not doubt she will have reason to worry more in the future.

Alex talks of many things— the General, foolish letters she has received and responded to on Washington’s behalf, her fellow soldiers, Laurens, the war, her thoughts— and only halts to exclaim in distress, “But let’s speak of you! My love, I apologise.”

“Don’t,” Eliza says swiftly. “I love to hear you talk.”

To this, Alex laughs— a small, endearing sound that comes, hoarse, from the back of her throat, as though her laugh is an abandoned thing grown rusty from disuse. “You may be,” she says, the sides of her eyes crinkling, “the only person to ever say that. Oh, Eliza.”

And then she kisses her, her hands— not soft, like hers, but rough— cupping her face gently and smiling into the kiss, with what Eliza dares to think might be love.

+

Alex’s letters are constant, long and loving; Eliza supposes, being at a desk most of the time, she has an excuse to write so much. And Eliza knows how quick she writes— the same pace as she thinks, it seems.

Their length makes her own letters feel insufficient, sometimes; her handwriting and prose hold nothing to Alex’s, either, and she wishes she was  _more_ , more like Angelica, sharp-minded and sophisticated, or Peggy, romantic and witty. They both look over her letters; no fault is found by either and yet Eliza cannot shake the feeling. “Alex’s intellect is not superior to yours; it is simply different,” Angelica says in response to her insecurities. “And her writing is just more flamboyant, not better. What she says in hundred words, you say in ten. Saves ink.” There’s no heat to her words, just exasperated fondness; Eliza’s sisters love Alex like Alex is a Schuyler herself.

They’re beautiful, the letters, so much that their length feels like nothing, and Eliza was never one for reading, not like Angelica, but she could read Alex’s letters to her non-stop, until her words were imprinted in her mind; she wishes she could. However, these letters are evidence of crimes that can never be admitted, never be discovered, Eliza knows. The letters, once received and read, burn in the fireplace; a shameful act, the way their apparent crimes never are.

Eliza is rarely angry. However, at the sight of Alexandra’s letters to her blacken at the edges and curl up on itself, as if it’s hiding, then turn to ash causes fury to rise in her. And all she can do is swallow it down and smile, as if she is content.

+

Eliza proposes they buy a place for themselves. She creates a sound explanation for anyone who questions two women living together— they’re two chaste Christian women, bosom friends devoted to God’s good will. She had readied herself for rejection; it seemed most likely that Alex— paranoid and willing to take so many risks, but not one that would tarnish her reputation and ruin her chances, not one like this—would say no.

But she hadn’t. She had agreed, passionate and casual in a way only she can manage, and then said with a grin that made her look her age, “How do you feel about Harlem?”

Eliza refuses to wonder that the reason for Alex’s easy acceptance is because she believes she won’t come back from the war. She refuses.

They throw a housewarming party and it feels like a blatant mockery of a wedding. Alex dresses up for the occasion— a dark velvet green against her olive skin, her hair styled in curls, absolutely radiant and far more comfortable than Eliza has ever seen her in feminine attire before. Hercules throws flower petals in their wake, as they dance carelessly together. ("You make a lovely flower girl, Herc," Alex says, teasing but also oddly sincere; Hercules grins and replies, cheery, "You bet your ass I do.") Laurens makes a drunken and endearing speech; Angelica makes a toast, wishing them satisfaction, like that’s a possibility for them. With Alex’s mythic stubbornness and her own love-stupid optimism, she thinks it might be. Even Burr, whose relationship to Alex is ambiguous and contradictory, makes a brief and amicable appearance. 

It’s a small, private affair, one Eliza loved every second of, but there remains the lingering fear that it may cause talk.

“It won’t cause talk from anyone who matters,” Alex says, haughty and naive, and by God, Eliza loves her.

A place in Harlem, by no means small, but modest, and them, living and loving and hoping. They’re, perhaps foolishly, hopeful that this will work out for them, that no-one will discover anything indecent about the nature of their so-called friendship, that Alex will return from the war alive and well. Eliza thinks, maybe, she could adopt a child. Unconventional, of course, but the British have left behind many orphans; it’s something a good, charitable woman would do, nothing suspect about it.

She lets herself dream. They may not ever have a simple life together, but she believes they could have a happy one and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> so some people asked for more of lady alex/eliza and i was like, oh look at that... a chance to procrastinate revising for my exams.... hmmm. but seriously, thank u all so much for the feedback!!! i appreciate it so much, i really enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> capheusunn @ tumblr.


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